Crazy Little Thing Called Love
by OpenPage
Summary: Part five of "Peeping Through the Closet Door", a series of short stories detailing Tom's journey as he comes to realize he has feelings for Dennis. Tom decides to take it up a notch.
1. Start Me Up

The two officers rode in silence back to Tom's apartment, Fitzpatrick's vile, homophobic dialogue weighing heavily on both their minds. For Booker, it was nothing new. He'd been on the receiving end of many verbal attacks, and even a few physical brawls all because of his sexual orientation. Not that familiarity made it any easier, it didn't, but he had learned long ago not to take the vitriolic hate speech personally. Bigotry was the disease of ignorance, spread by the narrow-minded and embraced by those too uneducated to know better. However, while he accepted Thomas Jefferson's philosophy that did not mean he wouldn't stand up for his rights and popping the rude, foul-mouthed drunk in the bar had given him more satisfaction than he cared to admit. People like Fitzpatrick were the reason suicide rates were so high within the LGB community, and in Booker's opinion, those bigots occasionally needed to be taught a lesson. He was rational enough to know violence wasn't the answer, but on the flip side, he was hot-headed enough to exact justice when necessary, and as far as he was concerned, Fitzpatrick deserved to get his nose broken.

For Tom, however, the homophobic attack was a new experience. The confrontation had been unexpected, adding a different perspective to his and Booker's budding relationship. However, apart from admonishing his friend for throwing a punch in a room full of witnesses, he had managed to keep his emotions in check, despite the encounter leaving him shaken. Even though he had grown up in a religious household, he had not prepared himself for the negative attitude of those who considered same-sex relationships as an abhorrent affront to their moral sensibilities. Fitzpatrick's spiteful outburst had amplified his feelings of uncertainty, and once again he found himself at a crossroad, unsure which path to take.

Pulling up outside Tom's apartment building, Booker switched off the ignition and turned to face his passenger, a cheerful smile gracing his full lips. "Not exactly the night I had planned," he confessed, hoping his casual repartee would help lighten the mood. "Next time we'll go somewhere where there are no loud-mouthed drunks."

One corner of Tom's mouth twitched, the half-hearted smile barely registering on his face. He appreciated Booker's attempt at humor, but the altercation in the bar had affected him too deeply to accept it as just the ramblings of a drunken fool, and he wasn't about to brush it off with a smile and a nod. While verbal gay bashing wasn't a crime per se, it _was_ a violation of a person's fundamental human rights, and in Tom's mind that constituted an offense. That he had been on the receiving end of an unprovoked attack was irrelevant, what mattered was it was happening all around the world, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. As an upholder of the law, he had never felt more impotent, and he wondered if he would be able to hold his tongue the next time it happened, or if, like Booker, he would reach a point where he finally lost his cool.

Having watched Tom's conflicting display of emotions play out in silence, Booker decided to open the conversation up for debate in his own, unique fashion... by using humor to deflect the seriousness of the situation. "Talk to me, Hanson. Tell me what's going on in that pretty little head of yours."

But once again, the dark-haired officer's attempt at playfulness fell flat. "Is it always like this?" Tom asked, his expression somber. "I mean, if we go out in public and… well, are we always gonna get some meathead attacking us?"

The question had no easy answer, and Booker suppressed a frustrated sigh. He had wanted to show Tom a fun time in a relaxed environment so they could get to know each other better. But the cruel hand of fate had intervened in the form of a drunken homophobe, and now he was back to square one. Tom was obviously having second thoughts, leaving him, once again, to pick up the broken pieces of their fledgling relationship. But while he was desperate to win Tom back, he was not about to trivialize the event again, and therefore, he chose his words carefully. "Not everyone's gonna be a fan of the gay pride parade, Tommy. But that doesn't mean you shouldn't fly the flag."

The term _gay_ still had the power to redden Tom's cheeks, and he ducked his head, thereby avoiding the intensity of Booker's gaze. He wasn't sure if he _was_ gay, or bi, or whatever the politically correct term of the day was, all he knew for certain was his attraction toward Booker was a living, breathing entity, an apotheosis of full-blown, teenage infatuation. The dark-haired officer occupied Tom's thoughts night and day. His physical beauty was captivating, the sensual curve of his full lips sending the young officer's heart into an arrhythmic pitter-patter of desire. But it wasn't just his Adonis good looks Tom found enthralling. The rambunctious roar of Booker's laugh never failed to bring a smile to Tom's face, in fact, every facet of his personality, from his gentle teasing to his cocksure abrasiveness had the ability to bring him to his knees. But was it love? Tom still didn't know, but he figured the only way to find out was to keep spending time together and to wait and see what happened.

With his thoughts now in some semblance of order, Tom's fingers rubbed absently at his chin. "I guess. It's just… it's a lot to deal with, you know?"

Booker's eyes shone with understanding. "Yeah, I know."

An awkward silence followed, neither man sure how to proceed. Eventually, Tom found some words to fill the void. "Do you want to come up for coffee?"

A slow, impish grin curved the corners of Booker's lips. "That depends. Are you asking me up for coffee or _coffee?"_

Having missed the double entendre hidden within the innocent invite, Tom blushed. "How 'bout we just start with coffee."

Although not the _coffee_ Booker was hoping for, he hid his disappointment behind his smile. He was determined to let Hanson set the pace, and if that meant drinking coffee and talking, then he was prepared to make the sacrifice. "All right, but can we make it a nightcap? I kinda need something to get rid of the foul taste in my mouth."

Tom understood the meaning behind Booker's words. Bigotry, in all forms, was a bitter pill to swallow. However, he was wary of consuming any more alcohol, and therefore, his response lacked a certain amount of enthusiasm. "Um, sure. Is whiskey okay?"

"Perfect," Booker replied with a grin, and before Tom could change his mind, he opened the car door and jumped out. "Let's go."

With no choice left but to follow, Tom exited the Caddy, the irregular _thump, thump, thumpity, thump_ of his heart now a familiar sensation. He had no idea how the remainder of the night would play out, but a part of him was eager to find out, despite his nerves. He had come too far to throw in the towel, and the insatiable itch of curiosity was starting to get the better of him. He was willing _and_ able if their rendezvous turned amorous, but just how far he was prepared to go was still up for debate. However, the thrill of not knowing was all part of the allure, and slamming the car door, he led Booker up to his apartment.

Settled within the familiar confines of his home, Tom nursed a glass of Johnnie Walker's finest. With every sip of his drink, a pleasant, flavorful burn heated his throat, the effects of the alcohol helping to calm his nerves. The Rolling Stones, _'Tattoo You'_ played through the speakers, the music loud enough to enjoy without intruding on their conversation. He wasn't sure why he'd picked that particular album, but he'd been careful not to choose anything that could be considered _mood_ music. However, when the provocative strains of _'Worried About You'_ filtered throughout the small apartment, electrifying the atmosphere with its artistic allure, it suddenly became apparent he had failed dismally. While trying to add some normalcy to the situation, he had inadvertently brought about a dreamlike quality, with Mick Jagger's uniquely textured voice adding a hauntingly seductive backdrop to what was turning into an excruciatingly awkward first date.

Amused by Tom's obvious discomfort, Booker could not help but have a little fun. Taking a sip of his drink, he settled back comfortably against the sofa cushions. "So, Hanson, how far do you go on a first date? First base? Second? Or do you take the risk and try to make it to home plate?"

It was almost impossible to interpret the look on Tom's face. Panic? Excitement? Fear? Booker had no idea, but he immediately regretted his inappropriate wisecrack. Compassion creased the corners of his eyes, and laying a comforting hand on his friend's knee, he attempted to make things right. "I'm just messing with you," he revealed in a soft voice. "There's no pressure, okay? I'm enjoying just hanging out."

Once again, Booker had given Tom an out, but in a déjà vu moment, the young officer didn't take it. He knew _exactly_ what he was getting himself into, and although anxious, his body was already reacting to the idea of Booker jerking him off. But before he could respond to the question that was now floating around the universe, quivering on the waves of tension thickening the air, he needed some Dutch courage. Lifting his glass to his lips, he swallowed down a large gulp of the amber fluid. Fire burned in his belly, the pleasant afterglow lulling his spirit into a state of tranquility. He placed the empty tumbler on the coffee table, and wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, he gave Booker a nervous smile. "Um, how 'bout second base?"

Shocked into silence, Booker stared at Tom, his mouth partly open, his dark eyes widening in surprise. The question was not one he had expected his friend to answer, but now that he had, a surge of adrenaline coursed through his body, heightening his senses. But the thrill was momentary, and to his own chagrin, _Noble Dennis_ stepped in and called a halt to the proceedings. "I don't want to take advantage of you again, not after we've both been drinking."

Tom stared back at Booker in disbelief, the hammering of his heart escalating at the thought of being left high and dry with only his hand for company. He couldn't believe Dennis was turning him down, not after making his feelings clear about…

Except, he hadn't made them clear, not really. While it was obvious the dark-haired officer batted for both teams, he hadn't openly expressed his feelings, and Tom was left wondering. For the second time in less than a few hours, the young officer had the uncomfortable feeling that it might all be a game. What if Booker only viewed him as a conquest, a difficult challenge, and once he had won the ultimate battle, he would walk away in search of another target? But when he looked into the dark, smoldering eyes staring back at him, he knew he was foolish to doubt the intensity of his friend's feelings. That depth of emotion could not be faked, no matter how skilled in deception a person might be. However, before he preceded, Tom needed to hear the words, and tilting his head to one side, he peered up through his dark lashes. "Are you in love with me?"

Once again, surprise animated Booker's face, his lips parting to form a perfect 'O'. His cheeks immediately colored, his defenses temporarily lowered, leaving him vulnerable to ridicule. Caught off guard, his throat worked noisily, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he struggled to maintain his composure. "Jesus, Hanson," he muttered, his hand working furiously over his chin. "What do _you_ think?"

Tom exhaled a sigh. "I think yes, but I'm wondering why you haven't said it. You've got a reputation, Booker, you can't blame me for being wary."

Booker's eyes clouded over, and placing his glass on the table, he rose to his feet. "I should go. Maybe when you feel you can trust me, we can try again."

Disappointment shone from Tom's eyes, and reaching out, he took Booker by the hand and gently coaxed him back onto the sofa. "I don't want you to go," he stated softly. "I just want you to be honest with me."

It was then Booker appreciated Tom's hesitancy in committing to a sexual relationship. He _did_ have a reputation among his peers, not all of it warranted, but it was there all the same. Entering into a relationship with another man was a huge deal for Tom, who up until a week ago, considered himself straight, with no homosexual leanings whatsoever. It was understandable he was suspicious of the motive behind his apparent sudden interest in him. And so, with everything becoming crystal clear, Booker did his best to reassure his friend without sounding like a condescending asshole. "I haven't opened up to you about my feelings 'cause I didn't want to scare you off," he admitted in a quiet voice. "I've never flaunted my bisexuality, not 'cause I'm ashamed, but 'cause I figure it's nobody's damn business. But I've wanted you since the first time I laid eyes on you. So, the answer is yes, I'm in love with you."

Respect shimmered in Tom's dark eyes. "Thank you," he smiled, "I know that probably wasn't easy to admit."

Booker gave a brief nod. "Yeah, well, I still think I should go. Like I said, I don't want to take advantage of you again."

Tom's expression immediately soured. "You think I'm drunk? Is that it?" he asked, his lower lip pushing into a fractious pout.

Booker cast his eyes at Tom's empty glass, his expression skeptical. "Aren't you?"

Sensing their disagreement was escalating into an argument, Tom decided to play on Booker's mischievous side. "Do you want me to take a sobriety test, Officer?" he asked with a cheeky smile before closing his eyes and proceeding to recite the alphabet backward while alternately touching his nose with his index fingers. "Z, y, x, w, v, u…"

"Okay, okay," Booker laughed, and grabbing Tom by the wrists, he gently lowered his hands into his lap. Tom opened his eyes, his eyebrows arching in surprise when he saw his friend's face was just inches from his own. His flesh tingled with anticipation, the electrifying charge bringing his cock to life, his body feeding on the intensity of the emotion. Never had he felt so alive, so in tune with the internal vibrations of another human being. It was a defining moment in his life because, at that very instant, he found the courage to express the depth of feeling coursing through his veins.

At that moment, he was free to be himself.

When Tom's soft lips brushed against his own, Booker inhaled a sharp breath, the unexpected contact raising the fine hairs on his arms. A low moan rumbled deep in the back of his throat, and placing a hand on the back of Tom's neck, he pulled him close, his needs escalating. Expertly parting Tom's lips, he deepened the kiss, and when their tongues met—plump flesh upon plump flesh—their passion exploded. Fingers grasped and pulled, the desperate desire to touch fueling their animalistic appetites. Driven by a physical need, they hungrily devoured the juices flowing from their mouths, sucking, tasting, committing the masculine flavors of cigarettes and whiskey to memory. Pushing Tom back on the sofa, Booker pressed his body against him, his hips gyrating, grinding his growing erection against his lover's groin. Seeking gratification, the young officers' coupling bordered on savage; teeth clashing, biting, nipping, sucking, their primal instincts taking control of both mind and body. But when Booker's teeth inadvertently ripped at Tom's lower lip, drawing blood, the young officer twisted his head to the side, breaking the brutality of the kiss.

"Fuck," he gasped, his chest rising and falling in short, shallow bursts.

When Booker noticed the blood dripping from his lover's lip, his eyes filled with contrition. "Sorry," he breathed, and ducking his head, he lovingly sucked at the damaged flesh. "I guess… I got… carried… away."

Tom's hands found their way under his lover's tee shirt, the tips of his fingers drawing invisible patterns over the warm flesh. "Maybe... we should... slow it... down," he suggested, his heavy, breathless pant tickling Booker's face.

Smiling, Booker traced his tongue over Tom's lips. "Whatever you want, baby," he murmured, his mouth continuing to explore the swollen contours of his lover's bruised flesh.

The unfamiliar term of endearment stilled Tom's roving hands, and pushing against Booker's ribs, he disengaged the kiss. "B- _Baby?"_ he queried, his eyes searching the dark-haired officer's face for an explanation. "Did you just call me _baby?"_

Embarrassed, Booker sat up, a slow, apologetic smile playing over his tingling lips. "Yeah, I guess I did."

Although confrontational, Tom was surprised to find he was secretly rather pleased, and a devilish grin tilted his lips. "Baby, huh? Mm, I kinda like it."

Relief brightened Booker's eyes, and turning his attention to the noticeable bulge in the front of Tom's jeans, his eyebrows waggled playfully. "I think I know something else you'll like."

When gentle fingers massaged the straining outline of his cock through the worn denim, Tom's breath hitched in his throat. _"Yess,"_ he moaned in one, long exhalation. "Oh, _yess."_

The tip of Booker's tongue peeked lasciviously from between his lips, and without waiting for permission, he popped the button of Tom's jeans and carefully lowered the zipper. Once free, Tom's erection poked through the fly of his shorts, curving toward his belly, the tip already glistening with pre-cum. Booker's eyes widened in delight, the lure of the gleaming head drawing him in. He longed to sweep his tongue over the smooth flesh, the desire to taste the pearly droplets shimmering under the overhead light almost too much to bear. But he respected Tom too much to overstep the boundaries, and pushing the thought out of his mind, he lightly traced a finger up the underside of his cock.

 _"Ooh,"_ Tom breathed, the erotic sensation further lengthening his erection.

With no need for further persuasion, Booker released Tom's cock from within the soft folds of cotton. Forming a fist around his shaft, he gently twisted his hand around the base and slid his fingers up toward the tip. When he reached the sensitive glans, he traced his thumb over the smooth flesh, coating the pad with the viscous fluid leaking from the tip. Using the juices as lubrication, he twisted and twirled his hand up and down the silky flesh, his fingers gently squeezing and releasing in a slow, tugging motion. "Do you like that, baby?" he murmured, his free hand lightly fondling Tom's testicles. "Do you like me touching you."

Tom squirmed, his hips rocking upwards, selfishly demanding more. "Faster," he moaned. "Jerk me faster."

Always willing to please, Booker's fist pumped over Tom's erection, his fingers alternating pressure as his hand glided over the thick, swollen shaft.

"Yes, yes, yes," Tom gasped, the thrusting of his hips becoming more frenetic. Every nerve in his body tingled with the impatient desire for sexual release, his toes curling in response to the erotic sensation. A low, sexual mantra tumbled from his lips, the desperate words falling into rhythm with his thrusting. "Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck…"

Booker's eyes grew black, the pupils shining brightly. "Touch me, Tommy," he begged, his neglected cock straining against the confines of his jeans. "Please touch me."

Momentary fear paralyzed Tom, and his body stilled mid thrust. While accepting the desire to feel Booker's hands coaxing his body toward orgasm, the reality of his lover asking him to return the favor hadn't really occurred to him. He suddenly realized how naive he was, and he stared up at Booker, his dark eyes conveying his regret. "I-I," he stammered.

Although desperate to feel Tom's tender touch, Booker understood his trepidation, and grasping hold of his hand, he placed it in his lap. "Just touch me through my jeans," he instructed, his voice husky with arousal.

Swallowing deeply, Tom tentatively caressed the hard mound beneath his fingers, squeezing and stroking, the twitching flesh responding to the gentleness of his touch. "That's right," Booker murmured, his tender encouragement helping ease Tom's anxiety. "Just like that."

Heavy breathing rent the air, the scent of sex permeating the atmosphere. Lost in the pleasure of their coupling, Tom struggled to speak. "I'm close," he gasped. "Oh God oh God oh God oh—"

His body tensed and squeezing the hard mound between his fingers, he spasmed violently, his orgasm coating his lover's fingers.

Pain shot through Booker's sensitive cock. "FUCK!" he cried, and arching backward, he ejaculated, the force of his release staining the front of his jeans.

In the silence that followed, Mick Jagger's voice took center stage. _"Stay away from me. Hey, you, ain't no use, ain't no use. Stay away from me. Ain't no use in crying. Stay away from me."_ And as the soulful tapestry of sound faded from the speakers, Tom couldn't help but wonder if the doleful lyrics were somehow directed at him, a doomsday prophecy in the making.

 _To be continued…_


	2. Chain Reaction

_**One week later**_

With a forceful hand, Tom slammed his locker closed, the metallic _clank_ echoing throughout the empty change room. He was fed up, his testy mood a product of long working hours and not enough sleep. At least that was what he kept telling himself, but deep in his heart, he knew it was a lie. It was his date with Booker that was troubling him, the problem was, he was too damn cowardly to admit it.

Since their rendezvous, his contact with the dark-haired officer had consisted of little more than a passing nod, a quietly spoken _hey,_ or, if they were alone, the occasional stolen kiss. He recognized this was because they were working on different cases, but it was also partly because he was keeping his distance. However, there was a valid reason behind his anti-social behavior, and that reason was Mick Jagger.

Leaning against his locker, Tom closed his eyes and allowed the memories of their date to play through his mind. It was a movie reel of emotion, played out in startling color, complete with accompanying soundtrack. First, there was Booker's teasing smile when he likened him to a prostitute. Then the car journey, the latest Guns N' Roses album blaring through the Cadillac's speakers the only thing saving them from an uncomfortable conversation. Drinks at the bar followed, the alcohol helping to lessen Tom's nerves. The altercation with the drunken bigot was next, with Booker standing up and defending their honor. However, after the drive home, the remainder of the evening was a blur, a fuzzy recollection of sensory snapshots. Dark eyes penetrating his soul… The intoxicating flavor of smoke and whiskey tingling his tongue… Sharp teeth, nipping, ripping, scraping... Salty droplets of blood adding a metallic tang to the river of saliva flooding his mouth... Warm fingers, caressing, coaxing, teasing him to life… An unfamiliar hardness pressing against his hand, thick, long, twitching beneath his touch… An intense pressure; rising, rising, until he can't hold on… A strangled moan... A euphoric wave crashing through his body… Cursing… Another moan… Dampness against his fingertips… A moment of clarity… Mick.

Although not a believer in fate, after such an emotionally charged experience, hearing the words, _"Stay away from me. Ain't no use in crying. Stay away from me,"_ had sent a surge of foreboding rippling through Tom's body, the tsunami of doom quickly overpowering the tingling pleasure of his orgasm. He'd managed to keep his fears in check until Booker left, but he'd spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling, wondering what he'd gotten himself into. The unsettling seesaw of emotions swamping his mind were starting to take their toll. One moment he was riding the dizzy heights of a man in love, the thrill and excitement leaving him breathless. Then, without warning, there was the gut-wrenching panic, followed by waves of self-doubt. He'd never felt such a roller coaster of emotions, but then he'd never been in a relationship with another man before. As much as he knew in his heart he had deep feelings for Booker, there was still a nagging voice in his head telling him he was making a huge mistake. There was no basis for his apprehension, but his lack of sleep had him teetering dangerously on the precipice of paranoia. And so, he had withdrawn from the source of his emotional anguish and thrown himself head on into the drug case he was investigating, creating a vicious circle of _more_ sleepless nights, which added fuel to the stream of negative thoughts swirling through his mind.

A whisper of warm breath tickled Tom's ear, the unexpected sensory invasion snapping him out of his reverie. His eyes flew open, fear constricting his chest. But his panic soon subsided when he recognized Booker's coal-black eyes twinkling back at him, and expelling his breath in a heavy rush of air, he threw his lover an irritated look. "Geez, Booker, wear a bell next time."

Tickled by the reference, Booker's mouth curved into a mischievous smile. "So, I was thinking," he crooned, his index finger trailing a seductive path down Tom's torso. "Maybe we should try the whole _date_ thing again. But this time, you invite me over, cook me dinner, and that way, we don't have to deal with any obnoxious drunks ruining our night."

Tired and out of sorts, Tom grabbed his lover by the wrist and yanked his hand away before it could reach its intended destination. "I'm not your fucking _girlfriend,_ Booker. So stop treating me like one."

Amused by the comparison, Booker's grin widened. "Hey, man, chill out. Nobody said you were. I was just suggesting we—"

"What you were _suggesting_ is _I_ cook for _you,"_ Tom snapped. "What am I? Your fucking mother? And you know what, I'm getting tired of you constantly emasculating me. You're always telling me how pretty I am and—"

 _"Always?"_ Booker queried, his eyes dancing with merriment. "Jesus, Hanson, can you say _overreaction?_ We've barely spoken all week, and anyway, you _are_ pretty, _waay_ too pretty for a man. In fact, it's kinda surprising you haven't been hit on by _more_ gay men."

A searing rage rippled through Tom's body, and with eyes blazing, he stepped forward, the muscles in his neck visibly cording. "You fucking—"

The sound of heavy footsteps stopped Tom mid-sentence. Both men waited expectantly, their argument hanging heavy in the air, adding tension to the atmosphere. A moment later, Penhall strode in, a white towel draped over his shoulders, his face dripping with perspiration. "Hey, fellas, what's up?"

The corners of Booker's lips curled into a mischievous smile, and casting a furtive eye at Tom's crotch, he raised one eyebrow. "Well, not Tommy, apparently," he quipped. "At least not yet."

"Huh?" Doug inquired absently, using the towel to mop his sweaty face.

Tom shot his lover an annoyed look before addressing his friend. "Ignore him, Doug. Booker's just being a jerk… as usual."

A witty comeback was there for the taking, and not about to let the opportunity go wanting, Booker tilted his head to one side, his demeanor innocently provocative. "Hmm, as _I_ remember it, _Tommy,_ you kinda like it when I jerk you."

Shock animated both Tom and Doug's faces, the smaller officer throwing his lover another furious look. But Booker showed no signs of apology. It was in his nature to tease, and without realizing it, Tom often left himself open to ridicule, making him an easy target. It wasn't really sport when the opportunity was handed to him on a silver platter, but that didn't mean Booker wouldn't grasp it with both hands. He couldn't help it, he enjoyed watching Tom squirm, especially in front of Doug.

Unsure of the meaning behind the cryptic comment, Penhall's eyes flitted between the two officers before settling on Dennis' amused face, his eyes narrowing into slits. "You know, Booker, sometimes you can be _really_ weird."

Unperturbed, Booker's lower lip pushed out, the faint shrug of his shoulders expressing his lack of interest in _what_ the officer thought. Turning his attention back to Tom, Penhall rolled his eyes, but the private exchange gained no response. An uncomfortable energy deadened the air, further oppressing the atmosphere, and although he couldn't explain it, Doug suddenly felt like a third wheel. "So, I guess I'll leave you fellas to it," he muttered, and throwing the towel over his shoulder, he walked toward the shower cubicles.

Once out of earshot, Tom turned his fury on Booker. "Why do you always do that?" he fumed. "Why do you always have to make a joke out of everything? What if Penhall had figured out what you meant?"

The light in Booker's eyes dimmed. "And what if he did? Would it matter? And anyway, I'd rather make a joke than always take everything so seriously. You're so fucking repressed, Hanson. You need to learn to lighten up."

Anger worked its way down Tom's arms, the force of his internal rage culminating in his hands, balling them into tight fists. "REPRESSED?" he yelled. "HOW CAN I BE REPRESSED WHEN I KEEP LETTING YOU JERK ME OFF?"

The shadows in Booker's eyes darkened. _"Let_ me? You didn't _let_ me, you fucking _begged_ me! _You_ were the one who asked me to touch you. _And_ you came to my apartment and asked me to kiss you. So don't blame me, Hanson, you're in this relationship just as much as I am!"

It was then Tom completely lost it. "Relationship? _What_ relationship? This isn't a relationship, Booker, it's a fucking nightmare!"

Pain radiated through Booker's heart, and lowering his gaze, he hid the hurt shining from his eyes behind his thick, dark lashes. While he understood the anguish of his lover's internal conflict, he hadn't expected him to lash out with such vitriolic force. Tom's confusion over his sexuality was obviously messing with his mind, but that didn't make the caustic outburst any easier for Booker to swallow. However, despite his ability to provide witty comebacks to suit almost any situation, the dark-haired officer was at a loss for words. Tom had made his feelings clear, and the sense of loss was soul destroying.

The long, drawn-out silence hanging in the air gave Tom the time he needed to rethink the validity of his statement. What he had with Booker _wasn't_ a nightmare, it was just different to anything else he'd ever experienced, and once put in perspective, he regretted his outburst. As the seconds ticked by, a knot of remorse balled in his stomach, and raking his fingers through his hair, he exhaled an apologetic sigh. "Sorry."

It took a moment for Booker to respond, but when he did, there was an edge to his voice that was new and unfamiliar. "I'd never do anything to hurt you, you know that, right?"

Shame averted Tom's gaze, and shuffling his feet, he stared at the toes of Booker's boots. "Yeah, I know. I don't know why I said those things. I guess I'm just tired."

It was a lame excuse, but Booker let it slide. However, he needed to know where he stood, and even though he was terrified of the answer, he asked the question foremost on his mind. "Okay. But I need to know, do you still wanna keep seeing me?"

A shy smile tilted Tom's lips, and lifting his gaze, he peered out from behind the protective curtain of his long bangs. "Yeah, I do."

Relief sent Booker's heart skipping into an arrhythmic tattoo of fast, heavy beats before it returned to its regular cadence and desperate to make things right again, he reverted to his usual, teasing self. "Great. And just so you know, I'm an equal opportunity kinda guy, so how 'bout you come to my apartment, and _I'll_ cook _you_ dinner."

A look of uncertainty passed over Tom's face. "Can you cook?"

Booker shrugged, a cheeky grin chasing the remaining shadows from his eyes. "Who knows? But there's only one way to find out."

Tom nodded, a small smile curling his lips. "All right, but not tonight. I need to get a decent night's sleep."

"So, tomorrow?"

There was no disguising the hopeful expectation in Booker's voice, and although Tom could have done with a week's worth of sleep, he didn't have the heart to say no. "Yeah, okay. Tomorrow."

Satisfied, Booker brushed his lips over Tom's soft pout. The contact was fleeting, but the message was clear. He would prove himself worthy, even if it took him lifetime.


End file.
